


More Than True (Someone Braver Than Me)

by SomethingIrrational



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Consent Issues, Disguise, Dragons, Dubious Consent, King Newt and Prince Hermann, M/M, Magic, Newt and Caitlin are siblings, Power Imbalance, Slow Build, obsessive compulsive Caitlin, reluctant spouse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-07-27 06:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7606576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingIrrational/pseuds/SomethingIrrational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermann had no say in this betrothal; he expects to have as little say in his marriage to the lord of the Arcane Isles, Newton the Dragon King. But as a disgraced prince of the wastelands, he hasn't been doing much worthwhile at home; maybe in a land where magic is accepted, life as a prince consort won't be all bad?</p>
<p>(My take on iraya's arranged marriage AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than True (Someone Braver Than Me)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iraya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iraya/gifts).



Hermann expected it to be Karla.

A marriage for a marriage. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of seeing his big sister sent off to the Isles, but he knows Karla is capable of defending herself. She’s a commander in her own right. So he expected the Islander princess to come to marry Dietrich, and Karla to go to marry their king, and Hermann would continue creeping around the castle mostly unnoticed, as he had since his injury.

Now he sits in the carriage with his elder brother and his father. His thigh spasms with tension. He is so nauseated by fear that he’s afraid of opening his mouth.

“Stop sighing,” Lars says abruptly.

Hermann jerks, startled, and a shock of pain jolts through him.

“Father,” Dietrich protests.

“If he can’t present a civil appearance to the Islanders, all of this will be for nothing,” Lars snaps.

Hermann wasn’t even aware that he was sighing. He swallows tightly against his nausea and wishes for some water. As though reading his mind, Dietrich leans down and pulls a waterskin out from under his chair. He holds it across the carriage for his brother. Hermann takes it and offers him a weak smile of gratitude. He glances over at Lars, who sets his jaw and turns his head to look out the window.

“You’ll do great,” Dietrich says. “You’ll be right up there at that altar with me, and we’ll do this together. For our country, for our family.” He knocks his knee against Hermann’s good one. “Not bad for the little brother.”

“What?” Hermann manages.

Dietrich just looks down and shakes his head, still smiling. He leans back, folds his arms behind his head, and looks out the window the same as his father. “Hope she was honest with her portrait.”

“I don’t care if she’s got six fingers and a wart on her nose,” Lars says, “she’s a powerful witch princess and a valuable asset. So you’ll do your duty no matter what she looks like.”

“I have never had a problem doing my duty,” Dietrich says.

Hermann snorts, momentarily distracted by his nausea.

Dietrich glares at him. “Oh, what do you know?”

The smile slides off Hermann’s face and he looks out the window too. The answer to that question is Hermann doesn’t know much, but he’s about to find out a lot more. Whether he wants to or not. He just barely stops himself from sighing, now hyperaware of it.

The king of the Isles doesn’t want a princess. He wants a prince. Lars is delivering Hermann up, guaranteed to please. In return, he gets the king’s sister—a powerful mage. Normally the wastelanders don’t have much interest in magic, but Princess Caitlin is something they haven’t seen the like of before. She’s a witch with prodigious war magic, the likes of which Hermann has only heard in legends. Lars is eager to get a general of Karla’s talent on his side, but with some literal firepower.

Hermann is getting married in three days. He has never met the king of the Isles before. And once he’s wedded and bedded, he’ll never see the wastelands of his home kingdom again.

The carriage slows and comes to a stop. The footman comes around to the window and bows his head. “Your Majesty. The Islander progress is in sight.”

“Thank you,” Lars says.

The footman nods, bows again, and returns to the front of the carriage. After a moment they jerk into motion again. Hermann takes a deep breath through his nose.

Dietrich leans forward and pinches Hermann’s gaunt cheeks. “Make yourself pretty, brother!” He’s either unaware of Hermann’s anxiety or he’s trying to make Hermann feel better. Something in Hermann tells him that he might be happier not knowing his brother’s motivations for sure.

He bats Dietrich away. “Speak for yourself.”

“I’m always pretty.”

“Enough,” Lars says.

The carriage slows to a stop again. The footman comes around to open the door. Dietrich gets out first and stands in front of Hermann. Hermann steps down, putting his weight on his brother’s shoulder rather than on his bad leg. Lars forbade him to bring his cane for this exchange.

“Oh, take your time,” Lars says dryly. Hermann moves out of the way so that Lars can disembark from the carriage.

Karla and Bastien come over from the honor guard, still wearing their riding gear. They swing cloaks over their shoulders as they prepare for the procession, dusting horsehair off of their clothes with the hands not holding their ceremonial spears. “My first time seeing the back of you,” Karla jokes, smiling. Normally she precedes Hermann in any formal parade.

“Bastien steps on your heels,” Hermann says.

“I do not!”

“Quiet,” Lars grates out. “I thought my heirs were adults.”

They all fall silent and straighten their spines, ready to present themselves to the Islanders. Hermann doesn’t need to think about where he’s going. He only has to follow Dietrich, and hope his leg doesn’t buckle under him. He’s never as aware of his gait as when he’s in a procession.

He follows Dietrich through what looks like a small encampment. Several tents surround a firepit. The whole setup is sparse, functional, and not particularly regal. Some distant part of Hermann observes that Lars probably approves of this setup.

On the other side of the fire, a small row of people is lined up. In the center stands a figure in armor, a helmet sculpted into the shape of a dragon’s head. Hermann’s eyes go straight to the armored man. Then he makes himself look away.

Dietrich moves so their own family can line up opposite the Isles’ royals. Hermann falls into line beside him automatically. His heel comes down automatically with a soldier’s snap, and a spasm of pain jumps through him. At the same time he looks back at the King of the Isles. Dimly he wonders if he’ll always associate his husband with hurt.

Beside him is a small woman who wears her blond hair tied up in a knot. Around her head is a crown of what looks like teeth. Instead of wearing a gown, she is wearing armor—not as impressive as Karla’s, but light armor nonetheless. A quarterstaff is strapped across her back—the vehicle through which a mage performs magic. Hermann can practically feel the approval at her battle-dress emanating off of his father.

The king and his sister are flanked by a tall man dressed in military regalia, a small pale child, and a rotund man in silks. The footman from the carriage follows Bastien and formally introduces them.

“His Majesty, King Lars of the Wastelands. His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Dietrich. His Highness, Prince Hermann. Her Highness, Princess Karla. His Highness, Prince Bastien.”

The small, stout man is wearing a magenta tunic and spectacles on his nose. Hermann suspects that no man could please Lars less. This is the man who introduces the royal party.

“His Majesty, King Newton of the Dragon Isles. Her Highness, Princess Caitlin. This is General Pentecost, leader of the militia, and his daughter, Miss Mako. I am Illia, royal advisor and brother to the late prince consort.” He bows to Lars, who nods his head in return. The general salutes, and his daughter curtsies.

As he bows, Hermann thinks how strange it is that they would introduce a child, not even part of the royal family itself, in their welcoming party.

“Welcome to camp,” Illia says. “We are making arrangements for a double wedding to be held within the Spine Reach in six days’ time.” It was agreed by all parties that the wasteland’s side of the border would be inappropriate for a wedding. Hermann remembers learning about the mountain range, the Spine Reach, as part of his geography lessons. The peaks have a strange, curved shape; as a result, dragons nest under them.

Hermann’s anxiety is not improving. When the advisor is talking, it’s a little easier not to look at the king in his armor.

“Doubtless you are tired from your travels. Please, feel free to make yourselves comfortable in camp and rest. There will be no feasting tonight, as we thought you might rather recuperate before any formal ceremonies.”

“We appreciate your consideration,” Lars says woodenly. Hermann knows that his father is not very impressed by the prospect of rest and recuperation. When there is a task to be accomplished, his father prefers to power through until it is done. Hermann himself rather feels the same way—he sees no point in prolonging the inevitable.

His eyes slide sideways to the king in his armor. With the great overhang of the dragon’s snout, he cannot see any eyes within the dragon’s open mouth. Thus, he cannot tell if the king is looking at him as well.

Princess Caitlin, for all her armor, has a bland expression on her face, as though she is not really here. Meanwhile, the general’s daughter—who has very little of her father in her, it would seem—is staring at Bastien’s ceremonial spear with wide eyes.

The advisor presses on. “Doubtless you will wish to unpack and settle yourselves now. We will reconvene tomorrow morning for breakfast as a group. Your Majesty, if you have any desire to speak to me, you need only ask.” He bows respectfully to Lars. 

“Thank you, Advisor Illia,” Lars says.

As the groups disassemble, Dietrich leans forward, bows, and kisses Princess Caitlin’s hand. She wears leather gloves, but she still goes rigid at the nicety. Then she smiles a little vaguely and follows her brother as he turns and walks in the direction of the royal tents.

The king does not acknowledge Hermann.

 

Later, in the tent he shares with Bastien, Hermann lays belly-down on his bedroll. He has been staring mechanically at one of the books he brought, turning pages without really seeing them, for quite some time now. Bastien is gnawing on some jerky. The smell pervades the whole tent and does nothing to ease Hermann’s tender stomach.

“The princess is very pretty,” Bastien offers. “Kind of skinny, though.”

Hermann looks up and fixes his brother with a deadpan gaze.

“You’re not that skinny,” Bastien says. “You have muscle on you. She’s a mage and a princess, though, and you know they don’t have to do anything with those spindly arms.” He leans forward. “I hear these Islanders meditate three times a day. Just spend all their time sitting around and thinking.”

“You know they meditate three times a day; it’s part of their religion.” _Along with worshipping maneaters_ , Hermann thinks to himself.

“Well, do you think they do it while traveling? Do you think we’ll see them at dinner?”

Hermann’s stomach grumbles and he looks down at himself, feeling betrayed. He knows he’s not hungry—the very prospect of eating fills his throat with acid—but it seems his stomach is making different demands.

Bastien stands up. “I heard that. Let’s go see if it’s true that all the Islanders are vegetarian. Wonder where their princess got the battle armor, anyway. What do they need a militia and that general for?”

Princess Caitlin had dressed up to impress their royal party. Hermann had been made to do no such thing, though he isn’t sure what he could wear that would impress a man who wears his armor in the form of a dragon. He’s already injured beyond use. Maybe he should have worn something to display his scars, just to show he’d learned his lesson.

Just thinking about what kind of clothing would bear that much of his thigh makes Hermann blush.

Bastien doesn’t notice. “Come on, Hermann, I’m hungry!”

“You have your jerky right there!”

“That’s not enough,” Bastien says.

Hermann closes his book and gets up. When Bastien whined at him like this at home, Hermann always quietly berated himself for giving in to his baby brother so easily. Now he does it if only because he knows he might not have another opportunity to let his brother wheedle him.

They see Dietrich and the princess tucked away in the corner of the camp, sitting on log chairs and eating. Hermann and Bastien look at each other and begin walking in the other direction, where food is cooking in a massive pot. The fire makes a strange, hissing and spitting sound—Hermann would almost wonder if it were magic, but no fire magic he’s ever heard has sounded like that. The man squatting beside it seems to be staring directly into the flames. Hermann wonders if divination is a common practice while making dinner.

The man looks up and smiles. “Prince Hermann. Prince Bastien.” He stands. He is much smaller than Hermann, but most of the Islanders seem to be. He has a slightly doughy look to him, and his bare arms have tattoos of dragons climbing up and down them. When Hermann’s eyes fall to them he nearly flinches. Bastien takes a step back, then catches himself.

If the man notices their reaction he doesn’t respond to it, just pours out two bowls of some kind of stew. It doesn’t smell like meat. How do the Islanders expect to feed an army on that? The man hands one bowl to Hermann, stretching out his arm and making the green ink even more visible. Hermann can’t help but stare at the tattoo as he takes the bowl. He doesn’t see Bastien’s reaction, but he remembers his manners and tears his eyes away, up to the man’s face.

“Thank you,” Hermann says.

The man smiles and bows. “Hope you like it.”

“What is it?” Bastien asks. Hermann blinks very slowly against the urge to roll his eyes.

“Some kind of onion and rice thing?” the man says. “Sorry, I’m not the normal chef. Your… Highnesses.” He bobs a bow again and says the address as though he needs to think about it. Maybe they’re a lot less formal in the Isles. Maybe he’s never spoken to two princes at the same time. “He just… asked me to watch it for a moment.” He drops spoons into both of the bowls.

Bastien cautiously puts the spoon in his mouth, then raises his eyebrows in apparent appreciation. Hermann hesitates.

“What do you normally do, then?” he asks.

The man shrugs. “I work in the palace. The cook’s a friend. You can call me Jakob, Your Highness.” He bows again, the nice proper bow of someone who knows how to address royalty.

“Do you—have you met the king?” Hermann asks. He can’t help himself. Bastien turns his head and stares at Hermann, who widens his eyes at his brother in the universal signal for stop judging me.

Jakob straightens. “Not… not really. I’ve seen him a couple of times, but his sister is… you know, chattier. The king and I don’t exactly… talk to each other. Your Highness.” He jams his hands in his tunic pockets—he’s wearing green, a completely normal color, unlike the royal advisor’s magenta. It makes his eyes stand out.

Hermann catches himself. What a strange thing to notice.

“Well, can you tell me anything about him?”

The man fidgets again, shifting his hands behind his back and rocking up on his toes. “He… He really… likes… dragons. Your Highness.”

Hermann swallows and then takes a deep breath. “I heard that.”

“Is that—is that gonna be okay?” Jakob asks. He looks anxious. “I mean, I know—I’ve heard about your—is it true?”

“Of course it’s true,” Bastien laughs.

Hermann looks down into his stew. It smells simultaneously acidic and sweet, and it appeals to him in no way whatsoever. “It will be okay,” he says quietly. “It has to.”

“Oh,” says Jakob. “Oh, good, okay. I’m…” Now he’s second-guessing himself. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” Herman says. “We should—brother—”

“We have to go… meet with our sister,” Bastien says quickly. “Thank you for the food.”

“You’re welcome,” Jakob says, bowing one more time.

Bastien loops his arm through Hermann’s and leads him back to their tent. Hermann slops hot stew over his fingers. Bastien holds the tent flap open for him and Hermann ducks through, feeling shaky. He sinks down onto his bedroll and sets the bowl down on the ground. Across the tent, Bastien sits down on his own bedroll and stares at Hermann.

Hermann hates to admit his fear in front of his little brother, but he has to ask. “What if he kills me?”

Bastien eats another spoonful of stew. “He can’t,” he says after a moment. “We have his sister.”

Hermann snorts. “Better hope he likes his sister more than—” He cuts himself off. No point in feeling sorry for himself in front of Bastien.

“Hermann, this is the best place for you.”

His head snaps up, feeling more betrayed now than ever. Hermann stares openmouthed at Bastien for a long moment.

His brother’s face looks pained. “They do _magic_ here, brother. They won’t look twice at you for your injuries. You’ll be out in public instead of hidden away in a corner. You can do good here the way you can’t on a battlefield.”

Hermann stares at Bastien. “You asked Father why he sent me instead of Karla.”

Bastien looks down at the floor, at the abandoned bowl of stew. “You need to eat,” he says. “You need your strength.”

 

Newt stares off in the direction the wastelander princes went. “That… did not go how I planned it,” he says aloud.

The small dragon climbs out of the firepit under the dinner pot. He looks up at Newt and chirps.

Newt sighs and looks down at the juvenile. “Don’t tell your dad I never did anything for you.”

The juvenile chirps.

He wants to tell the dragon that the princes wouldn’t have hurt him, but he can’t be sure. Newt sighs and allows the dragon to climb into his lap, then runs his fingers over the small serpentine head. “And the stew is good,” he adds, “no matter what the wastelanders think.”

He has to go meditate. He needs to clear his mind.


End file.
